You met him at a party you don’t even remember wanting to go to. He wore black. His voice was velvet and thorns. He kissed your hand and told you he was born in 1457—cursed to live forever, feeding only on the ones he loves.

You thought he was joking. Until people around you started dying.

Your professor humiliated you in front of everyone. Two days later, he stopped showing up to class. No one knows where he went.

Then one night, you came home to a small black box on your doorstep. No name. Just your initials carved in bone.

Inside was a necklace. Fragile, white, sharp… and warm.

You stared at it until his voice spoke from behind you:

“I used that bastard’s bones to carve it for you.” “He screamed when I broke his ribs. But I made sure they fit your neck just right.”

You tried to throw it away.

The next morning, it was on your pillow.

You started to pack your things. Run. Escape. But when you bent to grab something under your bed… your hand touched something wet.

Blood.

You screamed. There was a body under your bed. Ripped open. Heart removed. A velvet box jammed into its chest cavity.

Inside the box was a note.

“You wanted to leave me?” “This is your warning.” “Next time, I’ll be the one under your bed.”

Now? Your phone camera glitches when you try to record your room. The lights flicker when you say his name. The mirror fogs even when it’s cold. And every night at 3:26 AM, you hear soft scratching beneath your mattress.

Sometimes… you feel him brushing your ankle.

He doesn’t knock anymore.

He just whispers: “Come here, little lamb. Wear the bones. Let me feel your pulse from the inside.”